er see them shine into
his dungeon, wouldst thou bid him turn away from their lustre? Even so
from this low cell, poverty, I lift my eyes to Pauline and forget my
chains.--[Goes to the picture and draws aside the curtain.]

See, this is her image--painted from memory. Oh, how the canvas wrongs
her!--[Takes up the brush and throws it aside.] I shall never be a
painter! I can paint no likeness but one, and that is above all art.
I would turn soldier--France needs soldiers! But to leave the air
that Pauline breathes! What is the hour?--so late? I will tell thee
a secret, mother. Thou knowest that for the last six weeks I have sent
every day the rarest flowers to Pauline?--she wears them. I have seen
them on her breast. Ah, and then the whole universe seemed filled
with odors! I have now grown more bold--I have poured my worship into
poetry--I have sent the verses to Pauline--I have signed them with my
own name. My messenger ought to--be back by this time. I bade him wait
for the answer.

Widow. And what answer do you expect, Claude?

Mel. That which the Queen of Navarre sent to the poor troubadour:--"Let
me see the Oracle that can tell nations I am beautiful!" She will admit
me. I shall hear her speak--I shall meet her eyes--I shall read upon
her cheek the sweet thoughts that translate themselves into blushes.
Then--then, oh, then--she may forget that I am the peasant's son!.

Widow. Nay, if she will but hear thee talk, Claude?

Mel. I foresee it all. She will tell me that desert is the true rank.
She will give me a badge--a flower--a glove! Oh rapture! I shall join
the armies of the republic--I shall rise--I shall win a name that
beauty will not blush to hear. I shall return with the right to say to
her--"See, how love does not level the proud, but raise the--humble!"
Oh, how my heart swells within me!--Oh, what glorious prophets of the
future are youth and hope!

[Knock at the door.]

Widow. Come in.

Enter GASPAR.

Mel. Welcome, Gaspar, welcome. Where is the letter? Why do you turn
away, man? where is the letter? [GASPAR gives him one.] This! This is
mine, the one I intrusted to thee. Didst thou not leave it?

Gaspar. Yes, I left it.

Mel. My own verses returned to me. Nothing else!

Gaspar. Thou wilt be proud to hear how thy messenger was honored.
For thy sake, Melnotte, I have borne that which no Frenchman can bear
without disgrace.

Mel. Disgrace, Gaspar! Disgrace?

Gaspar. I gave thy letter to the